poetry

I can never forget you in early morning when I watch blades of grass shake their fingers at a ground hog who stepped too hard on their back-side, or the old man in the supermarket who bent his arthritic back to pick up a tomato rolling down the aisle. You are everywhere yet remain hidden. Your silence is deafening yet no music compares to your fiddle.

Copyright © 2020 Jennifer Brookins

GOOD MORNING WORLD

poetry by jennifer brookins

Heartache, you rapacious, marauding haunter nipping at the heels; you make every attempt to jackboot my day. Have you forgotten we no longer share the same bed – so anxious am I to meet the one who laughs within my soul. What happened to my old friend Raggedy Ann…my  diary filled with poetry written walking along river’s edge when life seemed too hopeless to go on. But on this wondrous autumn day her leaves – the color of ripe pimento, fall breathlessly in every corner of my garden; yesterday’s heartaches replaced with sonnets…I am humbled by their presence.

© 2020 Jennifer Brookins

I’M MAD AT GOD, THELMA OR WHATEVER YOUR NAME IS

The climate in Little Rock gets worse by the day. Christian preachers don’t let colored people in their churches, and the few that do make them sit in roped off sections in the back where no one can see them. If God knows everything, then he knows how fed up I am right now. He could have stopped all this hate between whites and coloreds. He didn’t. He could have stopped our soldiers from being killed in the war. He didn’t. So I made a deal with him: if he doesn’t bother me, then I won’t pester him anymore. It’s not right to call myself a Christian when I’m mad at him half the time.
All my life I’ve tried to love Jesus same as Mama did, but I don’t and I’m not proud of myself for it. I feel so let down these days wondering why someone like him isn’t around here now. If God gave people a teacher back then, why can’t he give me one now? But when I say things like that, people look at me with that “shut up” look on their face, then comes ten quotes from the New Testament. Why should I believe them when they can’t give me one good reason for claiming Christian whites are better than Christian negroes. If Jesus wasn’t a racist, why are they? I have serious questions no one can answer outside of the usual stock answer, “Little lady, just read your Bible every day, have faith, and everything will work out.” Well, maybe that answer is enough for some people but not for me.
And another thing, how come every question I ask always ends with them saying I’m sitting in judgment. Is wanting to know the truth same as judging others? I’d like to believe they know what they’re talking about, but when I heard some preacher cheated on his wife at the drive-in last Saturday, and him with his hand in some girl’s blouse, his tongue halfway to Memphis down her throat, and breaking the same ten commandments he preaches on Sundays, I thought to myself, “What’s the Gospel done for him?” I know all Christians aren’t like this but it’s enough to turn me off. I ask the same question over and over: what’s the point in bring- ing someone to Jesus and getting them baptized, when you don’t let coloreds in your church? Another time, I asked the same minister why God bothered to make me in the first place. I asked him where I lived before I was born, where I’ll go when I die, and what kind of God makes war? He just looked at me like I didn’t have my head screwed on tight. I should have asked him what he does on Saturday nights. I’m fed up asking questions no one can answer, like where my grandpa went when he died, like who decides what’s to be born an animal, or a blade of grass, or a human being. Another thing, where do my thoughts go when I die? Where’d my old dog Laddie go when he got hit by a car and died? We buried him out back. I can’t stop wondering about things like this. The Christian Science people are sincere, but they can’t answer my questions either. I only go to church because it makes Aunt Lowee happy.

Excerpt from Tharon Ann

I love Lucy, but what ever happened to Lucille Ball?

https://bitly.com/jbrookins

Here I am back in Hollywood with practical experience under my belt. Working with seasoned character actors this past summer has given me a newly discovered confidence. I’m beginning to get parts in little theaters around Hollywood, a good showcase for agents, producers and directors to scout for new talent. One morning, I get a call from my agent who tells me that last week, Lucille Ball sent someone to check me out in a play I’m in called Blue Denim. Apparently, she wants me to join the new repertory company she’s assembling at Desilu Studios. What a break! Just imagine. Lucille Ball wants to meet me.
On the day of my appointment, I’m more than a little nervous about meeting her as I vividly recall the Lucy of my childhood. A week never passed that I didn’t watch I love Lucy on our newly acquired television set Uncle Zack won in a poker game. I remember spending the first week just trying to figure out how people could move and talk inside that little box. Meeting a memory in the flesh is no small thing. Waiting here, my thoughts retrogress to the time when Joan Crawford, Aunt Lowee’s pet red hen, sat on Uncle Zack’s shoulder and never missed an episode of I Love Lucy. That hen was Lucille Ball’s biggest fan. I’d love to tell her about Joan Crawford but she’d think I’m stupid, that I’m making up such a crazy story.
I’m so nervous waiting here outside her dressing room for my interview, hives are starting to break out on my face. I try reading Daily Variety to calm my nerves. It’s hard to believe I’m about to meet Lucille Ball … my Lucy. Suddenly, I hear a loud, strident voice coming from her dressing room. I’ve no idea what my expectations are but this couldn’t be Lucy screaming. I’m trying hard to convince myself that no way is this shrill voice coming from the Lucy of my childhood. I’m startled to hear a rough voice scream, “Well, don’t stand there like a bump on a log. Get in here!”
Is she talking to me? She must be, there’s no one here but me. I cautiously walk into her dressing room and stare, not knowing what to say or what not to say. I didn’t ask to be here; she invited me. I begin to go back and forth with myself, thinking that surely this voice belongs to someone wearing a Lucy mask. No such luck. She cuts right to the chase, beginning her pitch in a hard voice, that if I sign the contract with Desilu, I’ll get more theatre experience. The carrot she’s dangling is the promise of putting her repertory actors in the many sitcoms she and Desi are grinding out at Desilu. This is no big turn on for me, even though she’s already hand picked and signed up quite a few actors. I’m loyal to my heroines but this one is going down fast. My trusting nature, or whatever naivety is left in me, has its heels put to the fire with this encounter. I watch her ultra red lips moving against a mop of freshly dyed fire red hair, eye lashes I could trip on, and realize she isn’t the wonderful Lucy I remember and loved.
Once reality sets in, clearly her offer will knock out future opportunities that might come my way. Fact of the matter, binding myself to a long term contract, for an iffy project that only pays scale, doesn’t make sense. She is promising the moon but does she think I just got off a banana boat? Truth is, I don’t like her. Sensing my hesitation, she begins to rant about my agent who either was, or, I suspect, still is her agent. She looks directly in my eyes and screams, “You’re so damn stupid, you don’t understand he doesn’t want you involved in our project because his commission would be shit! I know him like the back of my hand.”
I’m stunned she talks like this to someone she doesn’t even know. The Lucy I loved would never say “shit.” After this tirade, she dismisses me stating with utmost confidence, “Think about it and get back to me!” To insure her word is the last spoken, she screams, “Soon!
I leave her office fast as my legs will take me, thinking all the while that it will be a cold day in hell when I ever get back to her, as I take deep breaths of fresh air, and chew seven throat lozenges at once; I’m trying hard to overcome my devastation at losing the Lucy of my childhood. It’s hard facing the truth when a dream is shattered, the realization that someone I thought one way is quite the opposite. I call my agent from a pay phone to let him know I’d rather have my hooters shot out of cannon than sign a contract with someone I don’t trust! If I sign with Desilu, I’ll be stuck there forever. I’m startled to hear a rough voice scream, “Well, don’t stand there like a bump on a log. Get in here!”
Is she talking to me? She must be, there’s no one here but me. I cautiously walk into her dressing room and stare, not knowing what to say or what not to say. I didn’t ask to be here; she invited me. I begin to go back and forth with myself, thinking that surely this voice belongs to someone wearing a Lucy mask. No such luck. She cuts right to the chase, beginning her pitch in a hard voice, that if I sign the contract with Desilu, I’ll get more theatre experience. The carrot she’s dangling is the promise of putting her repertory actors in the many sitcoms she and Desi are grinding out at Desilu. This is no big turn on for me, even though she’s already hand picked and signed up quite a few actors. I’m loyal to my heroines but this one is going down fast. My trusting nature, or whatever naivety is left in me, has its heels put to the fire with this encounter. I watch her ultra red lips moving against a mop of freshly dyed fire red hair, eye lashes I could trip on, and realize she isn’t the wonderful Lucy I remember and loved.
Once reality sets in, clearly her offer will knock out future opportunities that might come my way. Fact of the matter, binding myself to a long term contract, for an iffy project that only pays scale, doesn’t make sense. She is promising the moon but does she think I just got off a banana boat? Truth is, I don’t like her. Sensing my hesitation, she begins to rant about my agent who either was, or, I suspect, still is her agent. She looks directly in my eyes and screams, “You’re so damn stupid, you don’t understand he doesn’t want you involved in our project because his commission would be shit! I know him like the back of my hand.”
I’m stunned she talks like this to someone she doesn’t even know. The Lucy I loved would never say “shit.” After this tirade, she dismisses me stating with utmost confidence, “Think about it and get back to me!” To insure her word is the last spoken, she screams, “Soon!
I leave her office fast as my legs will take me, thinking all the while that it will be a cold day in hell when I ever get back to her, as I take deep breaths of fresh air, and chew seven throat lozenges at once; I’m trying hard to overcome my devastation at losing the Lucy of my childhood. It’s hard facing the truth when a dream is shattered, the realization that someone I thought one way is quite the opposite. I call my agent from a pay phone to let him know I’d rather have my hooters shot out of cannon than sign a contract with someone I don’t trust! If I sign with Desilu, I’ll be stuck there forever. Lucille Ball is a great comedienne. I’ll give her that. I love Lucy ran from 1951 – 1957, one of the most watched shows on television. This afternoon, she spoke to me at length about how hard she worked getting to the top, how she saved her money from every paycheck, and how she never stopped trying to better herself. I take my hat off to her for that. I admire her grit because she’s married to someone who can’t keep his pants up. Maybe loving him made her so hard.
Once I recover from the shock of losing my childhood sweetheart, I drive straight home, crawl into bed with my clothes on, pull the covers up over my head and cry.

An excerpt from Tharon Ann

Sex is an hors d’oeuvre in Hollywood

tharon ann

An excerpt from Tharon Ann.

“Every day I run back and forth to the Chinese Grauman Theatre, working crazy odd hours with breaks in between shows. Oh, the life of an usherette. Ha! At least I have a job, and one step closer to my goal. I have to start somewhere. I’ll never let anyone push me in the dirt again. Never.

It’s so cool living at the Hollywood Studio Club. It feels like a luxury hotel, but it’s more like a sorority house for starlets and other show folk like me floating around trying to get their foot in a door – any door. Lots of contract players from major studios live here. There’s so much to say about this town – the seedy underbelly of ambition, the many times I’ve been in a car when suddenly his arm slides down, and confuses my leg for the gearshift. Sex is an hors d’oeuvre in Hollywood, a precursor to fast-tracking goals, a route I won’t take – thank you very much.

After dinner I decide to sit in the lobby and work on a scene from This Property is Condemned, a one act play by Tennessee Williams, for acting class tomorrow. My room is so small, the lobby is the only place to read and study; the other residents do the same. It’s also where guests come to visit. No one is allowed upstairs with the exception of those who live here.

I’m sitting here with my nose in a script when I’m hit on by one of Howard Hughes, or so he says, talent scouts – like seriously, who can believe anyone in this town. He is a tall, nondescript man who tries to strike up a conversation about how hard it is to get parts in Holly- wood if you don’t know the right people. The man says he’s waiting for someone who lives here that was just put under contract to Howard Hughes, along with his pitch that he is setting her up in a new apartment. In addition, he pays all her expenses and pushes her career. He asks me the question, “What do you think of that?” Without looking up, I reply in my old Southern accent, “Sounds good to me.” Those words are the ammunition for his big finale.

He continues to explain that when Hughes calls for this girl, she must be available for him. He makes it sound like such a great

opportunity, that if I’m interested he can make it happen for me too. This guy is the usual Hollywood wall snot. I’m insulted by his offer.

In my softest Southern ladylike voice, I look directly into his eyes and without blinking an eyelash, smile sweetly and ask, ‘Would you kindly take that offer and shove it up your ass?’

He’s shocked by my reply, but I continue to focus my glassy stare on his very nervous face. I have no idea what he is about to say; I take the lead once again and continue our one-sided conversation, ‘If you so much as look at me again, I’ll have you arrested for pimping.’ I’m angry because I know I’m better than this. Perfect timing. The girl he’s been waiting for enters the room. He quickly turns from me. She’s happy to see him. Smiling, he takes her hand and they leave. I know her. She is Elizabeth Taylor gorgeous.

A week or so later I notice that same girl in the dining room. She catches my eye and motions me to come join her for dinner. After we exchange the usual chitchat, I begin to describe my brief encounter with the so-called Howard Hughes guy she went out with. To my surprise, she’s genuinely happy I have an opportunity to get ahead in this town. Still thinking she’s putting me on, I laugh and begin to share my exact words to “pimpman,” that I have no interest in being any man’s whore-girl. Horrified, she abruptly gets up and leaves the room in a huff. She never speaks to me again. Well go damn figure Hollywood.

I share a room the size of a shoebox with a goofy dancer at the Hollywood Studio Club. She has the one single bed in the room. Mine is on the sleeping porch at the end of the hall, number fifteen to be exact, where the Miss Universe contestants dream of becoming queen of the world during runoffs. She reminds me of a slightly off-centered Christmas tree angel. Each morning on the way to ballet class, she walks through the Hollywood Farm Market to test sausage samples for breakfast. Betsy’s leaving soon to go back home and marry her high school sweetheart. I’m glad. She would never survive Hollywood; way too sweet for this town … reminds me of back home. I’ll miss her when she’s gone.

I know what I want. When push comes to shove, I’m a survivor. Otherwise, how did I live through the first two years in Hollywood trying to break into television, trying to get an agent, trying to get anything. Agents always tell me the same thing, “Little lady, you’re no hothouse orchid. You got no headlights and a voice like Minnie Pearl. Take your cute little ass back to Little Rock and marry the milkman, but whatever you do – get out of show business. You’re in way over your head. You’ll never make it.”

Actually, I do have an agent of sorts who calls herself, “Mrs. Virginia, agent for the stars.” She represents midgets, talking dogs, parrots, jugglers, a ventriloquist, a spider monkey she stole from a street vendor and me. One day, she calls to say that such and such is casting a great role, “Dahling, you’re perfect for the part. It will put you on top dahling. Now you must be there on time dahling.”

I suspect Mrs. Virginia is a man in drag. I could be wrong, but I don’t think so. She has a deep, show biz voice sprinkled with “dahling this” and “dahling that” in every conversation. Whenever she opens her mouth, I envision hot prune juice running down the side of her face.

When I arrive at the casting office, Mrs. Virginia’s entire circus act is in the lobby, flying and swinging in all their glory. Are we here for the same part? It could happen. This is Hollywood. I take her into my confidence, cough a few times on my sleeve and explain that I’m dying of tuberculosis, adding in my sweetest voice, “I haven’t the heart to waste your precious time.”

I may be new to the Hollywood scene but I’ve come a long way from this type of mass cattle call, and half-assed agents who book clowns and monkeys for car shows in shopping malls. It’s easy to be eaten alive in this town.

Being a starlet has the same value as a cheerleader in a nursing home. My dream is to be a real actress on Broadway. Last week, someone from the Actor’s Studio told me Hollywood actors aren’t respected on or off-Broadway. Well, that’s great, but I need to pay the rent. I have to begin somewhere.

At last, my foot is finally in the Hollywood door doing bit parts on television shows like Alfred Hitchcock Presents, Father Knows Best, Dobie Gillis, Suspicion etc. If you blink you’ll miss me, but it’s something. Warner Brothers grinds out shows, one hit after the other. Sitcoms sweep the nation week after week. One of the most popular is 77 Sunset Strip starring Ephrem Zimbalist Jr. and Roger Smith, along with Edd Byrnes and Connie Stevens. Overnight, Edd has become a household name after his hit record, “Kookie, Kookie Lend me your Comb.” Teeny boppers go wild for this song. When Edd’s contract is up for renewal, his agent holds out for more money. Where Jack Warner is concerned actors are dispensable, no matter their popularity. Edd wants more money than Jack Warner thinks he’s worth, and fires him. That’s the end of his rising star, his agent’s big commission, and another hard lesson to learn in this town. The pendulum swings both ways. A headliner today stands in the unemployment line tomorrow.

My agent just called to say I got the job I auditioned for months ago … so excited I can hardly breathe. I’ll be part of a summer repertory company in Connecticut as well as a proud, card-carrying member of Actor’s Equity, and the union dues that go with it. He tells me to buy a plane ticket and be there in two weeks. Whoo! Whoo!

Summer stock isn’t what I expected. I hardly have time to unpack! On the upside, it’s an opportunity to learn the techniques of performing on stage with well-known character actors like Dora Merande, a great comedian in her late seventies. She makes it her life’s ambition to stand in the wings each night and critique my every performance – comedy in particular. Dora is like a badger hunting prey, her long nose always checking me out, her buzzard-like eyes, small, squinty blue dots that at first glance seem cold, unyielding and lacking in humor. On the other hand, her odd-shaped nose has made a grateful friend out of me. If I look at it long enough, it begins to assume a life all its own.

Dora feels it’s less painful to teach me her lifelong bag of comedy trade secrets than to have me step on her laugh lines every night for the rest of the summer. She’s tutoring me in all the tricks of comedy, how to come in when a laugh peaks, how not to step on a laugh line, how to do a double-take in a natural way, how to take a slap, how to give a slap, how to take a fall without breaking every bone in my body, how not to upstage another actor, and how to upstage another actor. In short, she has become my mentor in comedy, and likes me despite herself. I adore her, and hang on every word she says. Lucky for me, because directors in summer stock have little time for anything outside of blocking scenes and preventing the actors from killing each other. We rehearse next week’s play from early morning until late afternoon. Afterward we go home, wash up, and grab a bite before returning to perform the play of the week for packed houses six days a week. Monday is dark. This is hard, grueling work, not at all what I thought it would be, but I’m not complaining. Where else could I learn the technique of performing on stage, as opposed to television and film – two different mediums. I’m lucky they hired me; at least that’s what Dora says. Ha! During the day, I rehearse for next week’s lead role of the sexy waitress Cherie in Bus Stop. In the evening I play twelve year old Ann Frank in The Diary of Ann Frank. When Bus Stop is in performance, we begin rehearsals for Separate Tables. I’ve learned so much from this strenuous schedule. The disciplined give and take of ensemble acting isn’t for sissies. Not a week passes, I’m not taken to task by the older, seasoned cast members. I hope to have more confidence in myself by summer’s end. Saying goodbye to Dora won’t be easy. Seems like that’s all I ever do. “

Five-star reviews on Amazon

A beautiful story of bravery, tragedy, independence

Tharon Ann, by author Jennifer Brookins is a wonderful read! A young woman begins her journey to chase her dreams from the Deep South to Hollywood, enduring a number of difficulties and overcoming the hardships of single motherhood to a wonderful ending and to the lovely woman known to us today. She teaches us to reach for our dreams, and though life sometimes seems senseless, in the long run good things do come. I highly recommend this book to anyone that loves biographies or for just a delightful read. Check this out!” 

-C.C. Cole

Show Biz Here I Come

Jennifer Brookins author

An excerpt from Tharon Ann

The telephone rings. It’s my agent. I have an interview at 1:00 this afternoon with Jerry Wald, an important producer at Twentieth Century Fox. This is a huge break, and hard to believe it’s happening to me. I put on my best outfit and drive to Twentieth. When I enter his suite two other men are present who right away get down to business, and check me out like I’m the lox and bagels they just ordered from Cantors. They dissect me from head to toe as though I’m not here. Slowly, the conversation segues onto the subject of my name, that it doesn’t meet the standards of other great show business names. Jerry W. says in a thick accent, “Tharon Ann? It’s got no pizzazz!” Who ever heard of a name like that? You listening? I named Jennifer Jones … see the rhythm? You gotta have a three syllable first name and a one syllable last name.” I’m standing here, a cadaver in the midst of an autopsy, watching my birth name fly out the window. The only sound that comes out of my mouth is, “Yes sir, that’s fine.” The young girl once named Tharon Ann, someone I began life with, is dead. I’m suddenly frightened. I want to resurrect her … why did I cave in? … why did I allow him to change my name? Tharon was my father’s name; it’s all I have left of him. Then again, what’s in a name? So what if my ambition caved to a loudmouth star maker. So what. I’ll bury Tharon Ann once and for all. I’m not her anymore. Don’t I have my foot in the door of a major movie studio? This is what counts. I sign a contract with Jerry Wald for his upcoming film, Mardi Gras, starring Pat Boone, Tommy Sands, Christine Carrere, Gary Crosby, Dick Sergeant, Sherrie North, Fred Clark, Barry Chase and me. From this point forward, everyday I drive to Twentieth for wardrobe, hair, makeup, schedules, meeting with various cast members, and rehearsing the musical sequences with a choreographer. Jerry Wald parades me around Twentieth and introduces me like I’m his new toy poodle. Who minds being a poodle? I don’t. Woof! Woof! I’m in heaven.


I have an important interview today. Jerry W. makes a point of telling me to wear the yellow dress from Mardi Gras. He urges me to be very polite to one of the two most influential women in Holly-wood, Hedda Hopper. Louella Parsons and Hedda have gossip columns. They make and break careers with a word, wielding their long, vengeful, sword-like tongues. In 1958, they own this town. People around here treat them like the second coming. We walk over to the set where Hedda, as famous for the hats she wears as her scathing tongue, holds court. Jerry W. bows low and kisses up to her,
“Hedda, love of my life, I’d like you to meet another little lady who loves hats.”


The only hat I like is my old baseball cap, but today I’m wearing a pale yellow cloche style to match my dress. He continues,
“She’s going to be in Mardi Gras. This one has the makings of a star.” Unimpressed, Hedda gives me a quick glance, just enough for me to look into her unyielding steel-blue eyes. For a brief moment, if ever a pissant froze to death inside a popsicle, it’s me standing here right now. She hates me. In an attempt to salvage the moment, I grab hold of my composure, and strain to harness enough sunshine to send a Kodak smile to this powerful woman wearing a hat reminiscent of a rooster chasing a barnyard hen. In a calculated move, Hedda slowly turns her head in my direction, and gives me an icy look that clearly represents her instant opinion of me, which is: “Drop dead you little bitch!”


In silence, I recite the alphabet ten times in wait for sound to come out of her draconian lips. She whispers in the vicinity of where I’m standing, “How nice.” Her head does a three quarter turn, as she summarily dismisses me with a flip of her hand.
Someone once told me I’m too direct with people, that it makes them uneasy. After my lackluster introduction to the Queen of Hollywood I pretend to be dead, and stand there like someone waiting at a red light who dies two seconds before it turns green. Jerry and Hedda continue to plot about exclusive dirt he’ll give her, only if she will not print something he doesn’t want made public. This town specializes in the game of tit for tat. It’s easy pretending to like a person when they pretend to like me, but hard even being cordial to someone who hates me right off the bat. When he’s finished his arm-twisting, brown-nosing chat with Hedda, on we go to our next stop which is the makeup department. As we walk along he tells me how many stars he’s made, pausing long enough for me to acknowledge the double entendre. Once there, he introduces me to a well known man who is polite and eager to please – rare in this town. Everyone has an agenda. What you see ain’t necessarily so. No one around here can point fingers if they’re completely honest.


He takes one look at me and says, “Now little lady, wait here for a moment. I’ll whip up a custom eye shadow that will be perfect for you.”


After his last remark, my introspective, philosophical thoughts
jump headfirst out the window. I need the wait for my ego to orbit back to earth. I’m just being honest when I say, “I’m so in awe when I think of me.”
When anyone in Hollywood uses the expression, “I’m just being honest,” it’s usually right after they’ve insulted the crap out of someone and I’m just being honest.


when winter leaves bundle by the roadside
bed perfumed with elderberry wine
my heart a bottomless well of loneliness when I think of you
another night swathed in moon glow for everyone but me
Oh Weaver
why visit only in dreams
meet me under the street light
where I sleep each night on a bench
my coat turned inside out
a pillow
in the hope someone will understand my barefoot journey
walking this pass of love every dusk-filled night of my soul
if only you were the reflection I face each morning
surely you would pierce my heart
lion sits all night gazing at the moon
while honeyed she-lion
loves him back
©jb

Hollywood Junkies and Strip Joints

Jennifer Brookins author

From Tharon Ann – a memoir by Jennifer Brookins

“I’m head over heels in love for the first time in my life – with his Cherokee good looks, his soft blue eyes and long black hair in contrast to his fair skin. He’s got a gentle way about everything he does, the way he says my name, the way he lifts my hair and kisses me on the back of my neck. Here I am not even twenty and loving so new to me. I’m also in love with a career I don’t have yet. Now for the reality check. I spend most of my fairy tale marriage traveling back and forth on a bus to Chino State Prison whenever he’s busted for drugs. Each time I visit, I get body searched for weapons and dope. It has a stench about it that follows me until I get home and soak in the tub for an hour. It’s the odor of hell that eeks out the pores of everyone locked up in there. Chino is the only place he’s able to clean up from smack, and that only lasts a week or so after he’s released before he’s back on the street again. When I married him, I had no idea what I was getting into. I was so naïve. It didn’t take long to discover it was heroin that gave him the illusion of being something he wasn’t. Maybe buried beneath the layers of dope is the person he could have been. I smoke pot but I’m too vain to have track marks up my legs and arms like him. Sure I dabble with drugs, but I know enough to stay away from the hard stuff. I’d go so far out, I’d never come back. It’s easy to understand how he became a druggie. At sixteen, he was still in high school, already playing in jazz clubs around Manhattan and gaining a reputation for being one of the best jazz drummers around. One day the telephone rang and the voice on the other end asked for him. Naturally, his mother thought the call was for her husband as they have the same first name. She told the voice he was doing studio work, and that she would give him the message when he got home from work. The caller was the great jazz musician Charlie Parker who had no interest in the father but great interest in his son. Billy dropped out of high school and joined Charlie Parker’s famous band thinking it was the greatest moment in his life, not realizing at the time that it was the beginning of the end. I can’t help wondering why God doesn’t flag the events of our lives that will destroy it. I sometimes wonder how Billy felt playing with the greatest jazz musicians who ever lived – all strung out on heroine. He was the only white boy playing in Charlie Parker’s band. At sixteen, he switched from pot to smack, the perfect way to ward off stress and blend in. But today, he’s just another unemployed, strung out musician.Lots of jazz musicians work in clubs like The Hot Kitty Cat, a well known strip house on Sunset Blvd. Billy was one of them and talked the owner into hiring me as a waitress. I’m nervous about working in a place like that but we’re broke. Lucky for me, someone just quit and I’m hired on the spot. The owner orders me to wear stiletto heels, black mesh hose, devil red lipstick, a bustier and shorts so short men felt free to pinch my ass before I have the chance to knock the bejesus out of them. These horny old men think I’m for sale. I hate working here but I have to pay the rent. Billy shoots our paychecks wherever he can find a healthy vein in his arm or leg. Today the electric was shut off.Several days pass before I finally get the hang of this place. For me to get a tip all depends on how well I play the game. I’m a fast learner when it comes to playing games without being touched. The dressing rooms for strippers are located backstage, directly across from where the bartenders make drinks; they never shut their doors. I can’t help but see what these strippers do in front of the bartenders, waitresses, or anyone else who has the bad luck of being condemned to working in this X rated hell hole. I don’t have a temperament for this crowd. The Hot Kitty Cat, one of the most popular night spots in Hollywood, is packed every night with famous, as well as not so famous, male actors, producers, directors, and men trying to grab a cheap thrill. Some try to get it on with the waitresses by sticking a large bill down their boobs. If one of them tries that on me, I’ll knock him to hell and back. I can’t stand much more of this place. Tonight, as I’m going through my usual drill of wading through smoke and tables so close together that I’m amazed at the balancing act I’ve learned carrying oversize trays of drinks to balding horned toads, I bend over to serve a large group of white haired men, when one old man grabs a handful. I’m so mad I purposely drop the tray of drinks as hard as I can on his bald head, as glasses of booze crash down, scattering here and there in the most unlikely places, staining their Rodeo Drive suits and ties, while at the same time strains of “What the hell you bitch!” and “Someone get this bitch out of here!” are heading straight to the owner’s ear. Do me a favor and fire me! I’ve had enough of this hell hole! All my pent up anger shoots back “Kiss my ass, you sons of bitches! I’m calling your wife and telling her where you are and what you’re doing! I’m out of here and kiss my ass again!” Heads are turning. People are beginning to enjoy the little side show coming from the table of men and me, rather than the strippers. Here she comes. The owner is heading my way. I turn to her and shout, “Keep my paycheck and buy yourself a new face!” Then, I take off my high heels and throw them as far as I can back into the crowded smoke filled room. So long hell! I’m out of here!Every day I plead with Billy to let me help him clean up. I can’t unless he agrees to the hell days of withdrawals. If a ten year old girl can live through DTs with an alcoholic, shouldn’t I be able to help him? I want to. I’m naive enough to think I can, but then again didn’t I learn my lesson with Uncle Zack? I’m trying to make myself believe a part of Billy’s sick. We drive to a small bungalow on Fountain Avenue in Hollywood where he scores from two mean, skinny lesbians – the nasty bitches. We go inside. Three junkies I don’t recognize are making jokes about two young narcotic cops who sent them to Chino twice, but now work the Hollywood scene. These guys are blond, good looking narcos who resemble the Crosby boys. A middle aged gaunt faced man walks over to the three junkies, and motions for them to follow him to the back room. I always wait up front, never where the deals go down in the back, but if this place is busted, I’ll go down with every one else. I’m standing here feeling very uncomfortable, not knowing what to do or what not to do when I look over and wonder if it’s my imagination that a girl wearing blue silk pajamas hiked up to her knee caps, is sprawled out on a couch by the window. I walk to that side of the room and find a young girl with long auburn colored hair, maybe my age – maybe younger, with fresh track marks running up her legs and arms. Another young woman who is waiting to score walks over to me, confiding that the girl on the couch is the daughter of a famous movie star. When I ask what’s wrong with her, quite matter-of-factually she shrugs and replies, “She just shot up,” and abruptly, turns and walks back, anxious she’ll miss her turn to score. No sooner do I sit down beside the girl on the couch, than she reaches out for my hand, her fingers cold and lifeless. The man volunteers this girl is about to enjoy a large inheritance on her eighteenth birthday. She is a hard core junky, very young, very beautiful, very strung out, and biding time for death to come. She will never see eighteen.I’m almost out the door when the telephone rings. I answer. It’s Billy. I know from the tone of his voice that he’s hurting; a voice unable to score, one that is lost in the bottom of a well. He begins to cry, “Tharon honey, I’m sorry but I can’t take it anymore.” He’s begging me to help him clean up. I make him tell me where he is. I tell him to wait there … that I’ll throw some things in a bag and pick him up; we’ll drive to Malibu, lock ourselves in a motel room and just do it. Outside of going back to Chino, it’s the only way. I say, “Wait … please don’t go … just wait … Billy, just wait … I’ll pick you up in thirty minutes … it’ll be alright … don’t cry … it’ll be alright baby.” There he is. An immediate wave of sadness runs through me seeing him like this, standing on the corner in front of Barney’s Beanery. He was my first love, handsome, talented and so gentle. Now look – gaunt and thin with track marks on his arms and legs. Not even looking at me, barely mumbling hello, he gets in the car and we drive to a motel in Malibu. He tells me in advance that no matter what he says, I’m not to let him out of the room. He tells me to hide the car keys as well as the key to our room. There are no words to describe what it’s like trying to hold on to someone going through heroin withdrawals, to someone who isn’t here. By day three, I’m sick from sleep deprivation and exhaustion, and he’s sick from hurting. He’s freaking out; he’s threatening to kill me if I don’t give him the keys and what little money I have. His hands around my neck, he’s screaming in my ear, “Give it! Give it! I’ll choke you to death Tharon! Give me the goddamn keys or I’ll kill you … you’re a dead bitch!” He’ll kill me if I don’t do something. I give him my purse. He throws it on the bed, and takes all the money I have … twenty-five dollars. I unlock the motel door, and tell him the car keys are under the mat on the driver’s side. They aren’t. I’m not giving them to him; he’ll sell my car for a fix. He grabs the money out of my hand and shoves me aside. As he runs to the car, I quickly lock the door to our room. He’ll be back when he can’t find the keys. I’m so scared I can hardly breath. He’s back …now he’s banging on the door and threatening to kill me again. “Get out of here Billy. The police are on their way.” This will be a long night. I’m sitting on the floor, my back propped up against the wall in wait for dawn, to make sure he’s gone. He’s looking to score. After that he’ll be ok … until the next time when he thoughtlessly shoots up again.


Amazon Five-star review by Shirley Priscilla Johnson TOP 1000 REVIEWER VINE VOICE: “This book will touch your heart, your mind, your Spirit. It will make you stop and think about the world that was and the one we live in now. It is both down to earth, yet goes deep into the Heart and Soul. A story of love, a story of pain, a story of battles, some won, some lost. Excellent read that you will never forget. Book received for an honest review.”